


Quiet

by marzichan



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: AU, M/M, Superstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 06:47:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/353330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marzichan/pseuds/marzichan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone steals Jake's New Year's kiss. Superstuck AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Superstuck is a Homestuck AU based in a world where supervillains and superheroes are a common sight. In this AU, Jake is both a supervillain called General Terror and the son of the infamous Lord English. You can find out more by visiting [this page.](http://generalterror.tumblr.com/faq) This story was originally posted [here](http://generalterror.tumblr.com/post/15123813039/you-just-wanted-a-quiet-new-years-eve-was-that) on Tumblr.

You just wanted a quiet New Year’s Eve. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently so. As you sit on the roof of your lair—the traps dis-engaged so you don’t accidentally injure yourself—and sip a glass of champagne, someone breaks your precious silence.

“Hey.”

You jolt in surprise, nearly spilling champagne all over yourself. When you turn around, The Tailorbird is standing a few feet away. He arches one eyebrow at your flustered scowl and walks closer anyway. You turn back around, huffing softly as you look back out toward the horizon.

He sits down beside you. “Up here by yourself, English?”

“Maybe I am.” You bite the inside of your cheek, a little irritated he ruined your brooding solitude but also not willing to tell him to leave. “Do you have a problem with that, Strider?”

You try to arch just one eyebrow, ironically, the way he does, but you can’t manage it so you’re forced to lift both. Hmph! Whatever, it’s a lame trick anyway. You pretend you were going for a double-brow raise the entire time.

“No problems, just curiosity. Champagne is an awfully romantic drink to be imbibing alone.” His comment only makes you sulk harder. Of all the people you didn’t want to see you right now, The Tailorbird is up there on your list. Pretty damn high, too.

“It was all I had on hand, okay!” You pull the bottle closer to you, defensively.

“I shouldn’t really be surprised. Technosexuality doesn’t lend itself well to a shared evening of bubbly beverages. I’m not sure the roof is the best place to drink yourself into a light coma, however, partner or not.” His implication is clear, and you almost choke on the sip of champagne you just took.

“Techno—I am not a technosexual!” You’re definitely red-faced now and more than a little irritated at his presence. He’s exactly as insufferable as always. “For your information, I am up on the roof because I wanted to see the stars.” Not to mention get some fresh air. You haven’t gotten enough lately.

The Tailorbird pauses like he’s trying to decide whether or not he should keep being a dick, and then he finally lets out a single quiet chuckle. “Mind if I join you?” When you glance at him in surprise, he shakes his head. “It’s not like I have anything better to do anyway.” Although the words are harsh, they don’t have the usual edge he aims toward you.

You snort and quickly glance back up at the night sky. “Yeah, well… I suppose I could let you stay a _little_ longer before I re-activate my traps and boot your orange ass out of here.”

“Please. Your traps mean nothing in the face of my determination. If I wanted to, I could bring you a fucking boxed lunch every day.” His declaration is casual but completely confident. He truly believes he could best your defenses at any time! Pshaw. That’s nonsense.

“Yeah right!” You huff, indignantly. “Otto would stop you.” But then you would stop Otto from attacking him, because you don’t want the two of them to _really_ fight.

“He would only stop me because he’s jealous of how radical my culinary skills are. Love is the secret ingredient there, GT, didn’t you know?” You’re not sure he realizes that the word ‘radical’ makes his whole spiel sound so much less ironic. It’s the kind of word he usually mocks you for using, saying it’s too outdated to be cool.

“Poppycock! You don’t love me.” You frown into your glass. You need a refill. “You don’t even like me.”

“I love your ass. Surely you know that by now.” His brow does that quirking thing again, but you’re feeling more glum than irritated now. The doleful feeling that has plagued you all evening has returned.

He scoots a little closer, and his hand just-so-coincidentally brushes yours. He pauses, meaningfully. “And, perhaps, I’m interested in other parts of you as well. That’s all close enough, no?”

You’re embarrassed, but you don’t yank your hand away. You don’t want him to think you’re afraid of him or his ironic advances. Your heart rate quickens regardless since the old organ has always been more of a gullible fool than you are. “Oh, really? You’re interested in other parts of me beyond my premium posterior? I think that you’re full of bullshit, Strider. Am I wrong?”

“What if you are?” There’s almost a hint of awkwardness in the way he slides closer yet, his hand curling on top of your own. It’s an unexpected move from your nemesis.

”!” Your blush worsens. “What—what are you saying?”

He avoids your startled gaze, looking anywhere but your face. “I’m saying you’re an oblivious idiot, English.” You swear the distance between you is rapidly disappearing, although you’re positive you haven’t moved an inch.

Just as the clock strikes midnight, down below in the lair, he leans in and presses his lips to yours. The world constricts around you until it consists of only Tailorbird stealing the taste of champagne from your tongue.

He pulls back suddenly, breaking the kiss to gently brush the back of his hand against your cheek.

“Get some better champagne next time.” He murmurs, a faint smirk briefly flashing across his face. And then—he’s gone. He bolts before you can adjust, before you can react, absconding from the rooftop before you have time to find your voice again.

“Strider—!” Too late.

What an asshole!


End file.
